


i don't know what it is, but you pull me in

by brahe



Category: Project Blue Book (TV)
Genre: Alternate Scene, Coda, Episode: s01e03 The Lubbock Lights, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, episode AU, i guess, mostly kissing, some banter, that's p much the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 10:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brahe/pseuds/brahe
Summary: “So what's it telling you?”Allen turns back to the board, walking towards it, looking up at his drawings. It really is an impressive spread, Michael thinks as he stands, coming down the stairs to the front. He doesn’t understand much of what’s up there, but watching as Allen had spent the last two hours covering the chalkboard with white and yellow had stirred a different kind of appreciation.





	i don't know what it is, but you pull me in

**Author's Note:**

> what's up it's me again, i will populate this ship tag if it's the death of me
> 
>  
> 
> this is basically an au of the chalkboard scene where:  
> 1) they're dating and have been for a while  
> 2) they don't get interrupted by "professor dipstick"  
> 3) michael is just really in love and soft
> 
> this came about mostly because of some headcanon/characterization things:  
> 1) allen definitely has a kink for michael calling him professor  
> 2) michael has a competency kink the size of the united states
> 
> i have nothing to say for myself except i just mostly wanted to write them making out, so have this

“Question, professor,” Michael says, and it comes out much more gravely than he expected, loud in the otherwise quiet stillness of the room.

Allen turns around, jerky, as if he'd forgotten Michael was watching him work.

“What exactly am I looking at, here?” he asks, and he doesn’t bother trying to hide the fond, curious smile on his face.

“Well,” Allen says, “I've taken the accounts and created a grid of the night sky over the campus – time frames, angles of sight, light inference. It's a composite sketch of the sighting.”

Allen walks forward as he explains, his hands moving close to his chest, aborted waves and gestures. 

Michael tilts his head. “So what's it telling you?”

Allen turns back to the board, walking towards it, looking up at his drawings. It really is an impressive spread, Michael thinks as he stands, coming down the stairs to the front. He doesn’t understand much of what’s up there, but watching as Allen had spent the last two hours covering the chalkboard with white and yellow had stirred a different kind of appreciation. It's humbling, in a way, watching him work – it's almost easy to forget the depths of Allen's knowledge, to forget just how much he knows, and knows  _ well _ . It's humbling, and it's kind of hot, Michael thinks, as he comes to a stop just behind Allen, close enough to touch.

“Shooting star, not possible,” Allen tells him. “Plane – well,” he tilts his head, and this close Michael can see how his hair’s started to come loose from the gel he keeps it in, curls shaking with the movement. “There were no scheduled flights that evening. But the power outage…Now, I'm starting to think – hey!”

Michael’s sure he’s got a ridiculous smile on his face, and as soon as Allen turns around he grabs at his waist, sliding his thumbs between Allen’s belt and the fabric of his pants, palms wide and curving around his hips.

Allen’s hands come to Michael’s chest, landing heavy as he’s thrown off by Michael’s incessant tugging, balancing as he stumbles forward until Michael’s got their legs pressed together.

“I think you’ll have to explain that again,” Michael admits, and Allen looks up from where he’d been re-smoothing the folds of Michael’s suit, eyes wide. “Sorry, professor,” he shrugs, smirk only growing at the way Allen reacts to that. He leans forward, brushing his nose against Allen’s cheek towards his ear, delighted by the way Allen tilts his head to the side. “I was a bit  _ distracted _ ,” he says, low and rough like he knows Allen likes, and then he’s pressing his lips to the skin just below his ear, sucking at the jut of his jaw, and Allen moans, a soft, choked-off sound, his hands tightening into fists in Michael’s suit jacket.

Michael frees a hand from Allen’s belt, bringing it to rest on the side of his neck, sliding it around until he’s got a fistful of Allen’s hair, curls twining around his fingers. He keeps Allen’s head tilted as he traces his jaw, lingering, open-mouth kisses pressed into the scruff of his beard, and Michael knows the beard burn will be obvious, but he can’t bring himself to care, loves the roughness under his lips.

“Michael,” Allen says, already sounding more than halfway to wrecked and Michael’s only just begun. He presses his smile into the underside of Allen’s jaw, nips lightly at the skin. “Mm, Michael, just kiss me, already,” Allen says, tugging at the fabric caught in his fists.

“Sure thing, professor,” Michael agrees, and he’s close enough to see the way Allen’s eyelids flutter.

“Stop calling me that,” Allen says, weak protest mumbled against his lips.

“And why would I do that?” Michael asks, drawing back far enough that he can look Allen in the eye, their noses brushing together. He shifts his leg between Allen’s. “Especially when I know you like it so much.”

Allen groans, eyes fluttering shut again, head tilted back into Michael’s grip, and Michael kisses him, then, hard and insistent, head to the side and his nose pressed into Allen’s cheekbone. 

He shifts his hand on Allen’s waist, sliding his thumb from underneath the belt and tugging at the fabric of his shirt, pulling at it until it comes free and he can slide his hand underneath, palm flat against Allen’s skin, warm and soft.

Allen's slid his hands down Michael's chest at some point, fingers worrying at the buttons of his jacket until he's gotten them all free, and then he's pushing it off, hands running up and over his shoulders as he goes. Michael frees one arm at a time, unwilling to let go of Allen completely, shaking at the jacket until it falls to the floor.

“Mm,” Allen starts, again, keeping his mouth far enough from Michael that he can talk without being interrupted. “Are you sure we should be doing this in here?”

Michael's moved back to Allen's neck in absence of his lips, and he smirks at the little moan he gets when he hums against Allen's skin.

“Why not? Who's gonna bother us?”

Allen flexes his hands on Michael's shoulders. “I don't know, I just –”

Michael steps back far enough that they're breathing their own air again, flicks his eyes between Allen's own. “If you're really worried about it, I'm hands off,” Michael tells him. “You know that. But…are you really worried about it?” he asks, and he starts rubs his thumb against the skin above Allen's hipbone.

Allen tilts his head like he does when he's thinking, and Michael watches him, doesn't bother to disguise what he's feeling, lets it show on his face, in his eyes.

“I suppose I'm not,” Allen admits. “I mean – I am, a bit, but…,” he huffs, and Michael grins. “I trust you, and I do really enjoy kissing you, and you've got me all worked up, now, so I think it's only fair you do something about it, anyways.”

His face had heated up about halfway through, a pretty blush along his neck and up underneath the rims of his glasses, and it darkens when Michael laughs.

“Well, in that case,” Michael agrees, and in the next moment he's got Allen sitting on the edge of the desk, his body between his thighs, and before he can do or say anything else, Allen's grabbed onto the sides of his face to pull him into a kiss, hard and long. He slides his hands into Michael's hair, curling his fingers against Michael's scalp when he drags Michael's bottom lip between his own, his teeth catching on it just enough, and it's Michael's turn to moan, grip tightening on Allen's hips before he shifts, slides a hand down to his thigh, the muscle twitching underneath his hand as Allen moves to wrap his legs around Michael's, ankles hooked around the backs of Michael's knees. 

Michael pulls back, breathing hard, to slide Allen's glasses off his face, folding them and setting them aside carefully, and when he looks at Allen, the sun streaming through the windows backlights him, throws a white-gold halo around his curls, and Michael’s never been more in love than he is right now, bathed in late afternoon sunlight, Allen’s eyes wide and dark, all of that heavy, heady attention on him and only him.

“You are something else,” Michael tells him, which earns him that little smile-smirk that curves the corners of Allen's lips, before he leans back in to kiss it away. 

He loses track of time, like this, the sunlight moving along the walls around them, each kiss stretching, lingering, tongues pushing together; heavy, heated kisses but without urgency, outside of time. It's addicting, intoxicating, nothing but Allen and the sun and the faint smell of chalk, everything on hold for these moments that stretch on and together. He thinks he'd be happy to spend his time like this, trading messy, slow kisses, fingers tracing patterns into warm skin.

  
  


“We should probably get going,” Allen mumbles, later, between kisses, the words brushed against Michael's lips. “The sun's almost setting.”

Michael hums in acknowledgement, but neither makes any effort to leave for another several minutes, kisses slowing down gradually until they break apart.

Michael runs one hand down Allen's arm. “You look…debauched,” Michael tells him, grinning and a little smug. Allen's lips are kiss-bruised and red, his eyes blown wide, his curls in complete disarray. Michael reaches with his free hand for Allen's hair, running his fingers through it a few times in an attempt to fix the mussed curls.

“Thanks to you,” Allen says, and his mouth curves into a pout that doesn't last very long. He tilts his head into Michael's hand until he doesn't, snapping back to the situation and grabbing Michael's hand from his hair. “The goal is to  _ leave _ ,” Allen reminds him, and Michael holds up his hands in surrender. Allen looks at him, raises an eyebrow. “Besides, you look pretty indecent yourself,  _ captain _ .”

Michael can only imagine – he's sure his lips are as red and swollen as Allen's, and he can feel the tingling of the beard burn all along his jaw. He reaches up to smooth down his hair the best he can, and then he steps away from Allen, turning to get his suit jacket from where it ended up on the floor.

Allen jumps off the edge of the desk, tucking his shirt back into his pants and straightening his tie. He's looking at the board again when Michael turns to him.

“I just want to copy a bit of this down,” Allen tells him, picking up the Blue Book case notebook and a pencil off the desk. Michael watches him as he buttons his suit and adjusts his tie, thinking again of how in love he is.

“I can feel you watching me,” Allen says, without turning around. “It's rather distracting.”

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry, professor,” Michael says, Allen's huff turns into an indignation shout when Michael steps into his space, wrapping his arms around his waist and settling his chin on Allen's shoulder.

“I can't believe what you've done to me,” Allen says, a rather fake frown curving the edges of his lips. He settles his weight back against Michael's chest and Michael smiles into the side of his neck.

“What an accusation, Allen,” Michael says, faux affronted. “You mean with ‘professor?’” He watches a faint bush creep up Allen's skin and shrugs. “I'm just watching your reactions, hon.”

Allen huffs again. “It's hardly my fault you always say it so…the way you do.”

“Oh? How's that?” Michael asks, knowing full well exactly how. “Like –  _ professor _ ?” he says, letting his tone drop, making it rough and just a little breathless, and he grins when Allen shivers. 

“Exactly like that,” Allen agrees, voice a little high and tight. “Though, I suppose you could probably say anything like that and I'd be…partial to it.”

Michael hums, low, eyes fluttering shut, and, keeping tone, he says the first thing that comes to him, something he doesn't say often but is always viscerally true, pressing the words into Allen's neck. “I love you.”

Allen stills in his arms, and when Michael opens his eyes Allen's looking at him, waiting; when Michael meets his eyes, he kisses him, slow and soft and gentle, unrushed and demanding of nothing but affection. “Love you, too,” Allen says, turning back to his notes. “I'm just about done with these, and then I think we should check up on that other lead, the professor with the photograph.”

Michael kisses his cheek and unwinds his arms from Allen's waist. He grabs Allen's coat and his own, waits for him by the door.

“I think we should do this more often,” Michael tells him as Allen slides his coat on and locks the door back behind them. Allen raises an eyebrow at him.

“What, make out in university classrooms?”

Michael laughs. “That's not what I meant, but I like it.” He reaches for Allen's hand, sliding their fingers together and squeezing a little. “I meant just…spend some time together, like that. No deadlines, no rush, just…just us, and time.”

“That's not such a bad idea,” Allen agrees, giving him a smile, and he doesn't let go of his hand until they get to the car.

**Author's Note:**

> also, something i thought about a lot while writing this was their preferences for calling people, like: michael imo prefers nicknames (doc, like we see in the show, and professor could fit there too) and i feel like he would use pet names like hon and babe. whereas allen seems like the kind of person who either addresses you by your title or your name, and doesn't really use pet names.


End file.
